


The Alphabetical Butcher Case

by HeartOfTheMirror



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crack, Dark Humor, F/M, I mean not totally crack, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Semi-Public Sex, Spanking, Well - Freeform, Where did that come from? I have no idea..., but there's a lot of humor, idek I just kind of went with it, off kilter humor, questionable employment of surveillance equipment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-10
Updated: 2013-07-31
Packaged: 2017-12-18 08:01:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/877477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HeartOfTheMirror/pseuds/HeartOfTheMirror
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is an ass, John gets covered in shit and then fed up with Sherlock's. The only question left is, who will John ultimately choose to give the golden ticket to his heart (and pants) to. Will there be a sex scene? Will there be rambling descriptions of the narrator's internal monologue? Is there really one last slice of cake in my refrigerator? We'll just have to see, wont we?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Get it on John

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FeliciaHM](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FeliciaHM/gifts).



> This piece was commissioned by the lovely bidder who won my writerly talents during the Sherlock Committee Fic Auction for Dash-Con 2014!
> 
> It started off okay and then my mind just kind of exploded. Apologies. Except not really. Okay a little. You know what? I'll just get on with it.

It all started in a barn (well a _stable_ if you wanted to technical about it, but that starts with an “s” and not a “b” so it really kind of screws the whole thing up, but- you know what? Forget all that. Just don't worry about it. We're getting way ahead of ourselves and this whole thing is just a parenthetical anyway). 

Bernie Walowitz was beaten to death in a barn exactly one week after Annie Maker was asphyxiated in an atrium (I think you can see where we're going with this now). Sherlock Holmes was on the case, although it only ranked a five or six tops. 

“You idiot!” Sherlock yelled at the forensic tech in training. “You're about to-” But all the yelling made him take a quick reflexive step back and he slipped and fell ass first in a crusted puddle of blood and straw. 

He looked at the bloated red and purple body then down at the mess he was in and asked, “Does this stain?” before bursting out in an illogical bout of tears. Sherlock screamed at the attending officers until someone came to collect the wailing trainee. As soon as they were out of the way Sherlock began to inspect the body and crawl around the straw looking for clues to deduce from.

John Watson was trailing after Sherlock dutifully, despite the fact that he was currently taking samples of manure from around the body. John distracted himself from that fact, and the resultant smell, by trying to figure out the best combination of rhyming and alliteration to use in the next title for his blog. The Affair of the Alphabetical.... no. The Alphabet Murder? No. The case of the.... The Alphabet Butcher Case? Now there was something.

Anyway, Sherlock noticed a pair of footprints leading away from the scene. None of the employees had been in the barn that day. The body had been discovered at six in the morning and the teenage worker who found it had hardly taken three steps into the room. Fresh straw had been laid down the night before. 

Sherlock was off like a rocket, his great intellect racing ahead of his common sense, and John, once again. With an ex-army doctor and half of NSY behind him, Sherlock skidded to a halt in front of the rickety door of what could only be some sort of storage space. He flung it open, ready to confront a cornered murderer or perhaps deduce some new clues so he could run off somewhere else and confront a cornered murder. 

He was not ready to see Sargent Sally Donovan draped over a saddle on a sawhorse, her pencil skirt hitched around her hips and Anderson, wearing his blue coveralls and gloves, behind her with a very key part of his anatomy... well. 

“Bleeding buggering shit!” said Lestrade, as several officers, forensic techs, and John could now see into the tack room through the large door which had been flung open. John snorted.

Anderson and Donovan snapped out of their shock, quickly moving to cover themselves as everyone else snickered and looked away. 

“Contaminating a crime scene?” Sherlock asks smugly.

“Sherlock, that's enough,” Lestrade said with his back still turned. “Sargent Donovan you're on leave pending a disciplinary hearing. Anderson, you're fired. You should both be ashamed of yourselves.” Sherlock's grin has grown steadily into a bright and beaming smile. 

“Oh, John it's Christmas!” 

“Sherlock,” John hissed. “You can't just- look settle down and be a professional, all right? Two co-workers just got caught in a compromising situation. What should that make you want to do?”

“Examine the pulpy corpse in the next room?” Sherlock asked. John takes a deep breath. 

“Bit not good,” John says. 

…............................................................................................................

It wasn't until later, back at Baker Street, that John began to really lose his temper with his high functioning flatmate.

“Did you see the look on his face?” Sherlock giggled over autopsy photos that showed the incongruous and skewed angles of what had once been Bernie's ribs. “Is it just me John, or does this cluster of bone fragment's resemble an alpaca?” Sherlock tilts the photograph for John's inspection. John scowls, keeping his eyes fixed on Sherlock. 

“What you're saying is so resoundingly not good. Do you even hear yourself?”

“No? Not an alpaca?” Sherlock says coyly. “Immaterial. Oh, John _fired_! On the spot! No more Anderson- no more Donovan too if we have anything like luck! Had I known what a marvelous day this would be I-”

“Oh yes, a marvelous bloody day! Me, covered in horse shit, one man- a _husband and father_ beaten to death in a pile of manure, and two human beings- who, despite all your vitriol were just trying to their jobs- humiliated and reprimanded in front of their coworkers. If you didn't have to show them up and insult them every time you saw them they would just leave you alone. They aren't fundamentally bad people Sherlock.”

“No John, perhaps they're not. But they are fundamentally idiots who couldn't preform their jobs adequately to save their lives and now Anderson is fundamentally _fired_ which is fundamentally fantastic, so if you don't mind I'm going to continue analyzing this alpaca so that I can deduce the highly unusual murder weapon and do what they fundamentally couldn't which is solve this case.” Sherlock grinned smugly at his flatmate like he'd won something and then turned his back on the conversation all together.

“You know what? I'm off to the pub. Don't wait up, not that you would.” John grabs his coat and slams the door on his way out of the flat. 

…..............................

The pub was comfortable, not overfull or barren. It wasn't one of John's usual haunts but he'd been feeling an acute need to escape the familiar in some subconscious effort to avoid being found by anyone he knew who might come looking. Not that anyone would of course. Only Sherlock, and possibly Mrs. Hudson, knew that John had stormed off in a huff and neither of them were likely to hunt him down outside of the close confines of Baker street. 

John sighed heavily and sipped at his lager. As much as Sherlock was his best mate, there was only so much any one sane human being could take of his total lack of emotional awareness in one day. Tomorrow when he was rested and recharged he'd approach the subject again and try to make his wayward flatmate understand his social faux pas.

The door opened and a woman in a conservative maroon dress came in. She couldn't have been much older than John. She had a plain face with a long nose but she wasn't unappealing in her own way. To be honest John probably wouldn't have paid her much mind if it weren't for her subtle sniffling and the redness around his eyes.

Call him a soft hearted gentleman but John really didn't like to see anyone in pain. Even in the midst of his own less than perfect day he immediately felt a pang go out for the poor woman. 

She sat one seat down from John at the bar and ordered a white wine- the bar tender raised an eyebrow- it wasn't really that kind of place, most of the patrons just ordered off the tap- but he pulled one cheap bottle down from the shelves and poured the majority of it into a larger glass, setting it down in front of her with a smile. 

“Care to talk about it?” He asked. 

“No,” she sniffled, drawing a finger down the condensation on the glass. 

“Well why don't you call me over if you change your mind, okay sweetheart?” He tapped the bar with a gentle smile before moving on to refill another customer.

The woman looked a little miffed to have been brushed off and John got the feeling, quite logically, that she was hoping to be pursued. He thought hey, I'd like it if someone took pity on me once in a while. Might as well throw the dear lady a bone right? Let her get it all off her chest. After all, what could be the harm?

“Long day?” he asked sympathetically. 

“Oh you don't even _know_ ,” the woman gushed. Leaning toward John over the empty stool between them. “It's all been just dreadful.” 

In hindsight, perhaps John shouldn't have let her buy him so many drinks (on a side note, the drinks were all tequila after that first one. Tequila, like Benedict Cumberbatch, is famous for making pants disappear. john was very fond of that particular pair of jeans. He'd gotten them half off and they made his arse look like it had been molded from gold off a statue of an Olympic athlete. He saw the way CCTV cameras turned to watch him after he passed when he wore that pair of jeans).


	2. But Not With Her

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whoa there, what put the fire in your pants? 
> 
> You better back that shit up, take a deep breath and take a second look without that Funky Cold Medina clogging up your upstairs brain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would suggest listening to the song "Funky Cold Medina" by Tone Loc while reading this chapter because it is tonally accurate and a flashback 90's memories (if not perhaps, a suitable moral compass).

John was laughing as he leaned against the door frame of 221b, his face sliding down the scarred wood as Alberta's boney hands tried to keep him upright. 

“Oh god, can't wait to get you in bed,” she said, her nasal voice whispering in his ear as she fiddled with the keys. John grunted his agreement. He was absolutely exhausted. Bes was most definitely called for. 

“I wonder if short men have bigger cocks?” she giggled like a donkey, but john found it oddly charming despite the confusing change of topic. He always thought he'd had a very respectable cock, not that he went around comparing. He told her as much. She giggled again.

“Oh god John,” she breathed, clutching at his lapels and staggering to the left a bit now that she was no longer bracing herself against the door frame. “Fuck me. Fuck me and help me forget all about him. Please?” Who was John to refuse a request like that? After all, she said please which some umbrella wielding arseholes were too proud to even contemplate saying so why not? 

John was just going in for the kiss when the door swooshed open quite suddenly, causing them both to fall to their bums on the floor. 

“Oh, not another one John,” Sherlock sighed as if bored. “Is this another one of your futile attempts to reestablish your heterosexuality? It wont work you know. You should take my advice and just ignore the whole business altogether.”

“Oh my god!” Alberta shrieked. “Is this your gay lover? Have you got a gay lover?! I thought you were different John!” 

“No, no,” John was quick to soothe, holding his palms out toward her in a calming gesture. “This is my flatmate, best friend, and the biggest dick in the world.” 

“You forgot consulting detective,” Sherlock huffed, crossing his arms and emphatically _not_ moving to help John off the ground. “Send her away now. I'll need you rested for the case tomorrow. We're going to go down to the lab first thing and see about those samples.”

“I'm not going to send her away.”

“John, please do be reasonable. You've got two hands and a perfectly functional shower to get off in,” Sherlock scoffed.

“Some people like to get off with more than just their hands Sherlock. Some people want romance.” 

“Romance?” Sherlock spat. “You hardly know a thing about this woman!” 

“I'll bet you do though,” John suggested nastily and immediately regretted it. Knowing Sherlock he would just see it as an invitation to- 

“You're forty three but you pretend to be much younger, going by the make up brands and perfume you've worn tonight _Spring in Viena_ for a woman your age? Compensating for a husband who's lost interest. You aren't well off going by the scuff marks on your shoes, lack of jewelry and the fact that I know that dress couldn't have cost more than 30 pounds though it's the one you've chosen to go out in when picking up a stranger. You're a librarian, obvious given the ink on your hands, paper cut, and routinely dry cuticles. You've very recently had a fight with your husband- broken things off? He works with the police but not in a position of power- forensics maybe? And he's been having an affair with a younger wo- _MRS. ANDERSON_?!” Sherlock screamed, horrified. 

“You know my husband?” Alberta Anderson asked, shaken and upset. 

“John I believe you owe me quite a debt,” Sherlock said seriously. 

“Sherlock!” John yelled. “We need to be chivalrous about this. The poor woman has just had a very serious shock and a very upsetting marital situation.” John knows his words are wasted before he even begins but he feels honor bound to try.

“That's all well and good, but she needs to leave. What sort of woman would marry _Anderson_? I know it's difficult but try to use your head,” Sherlock said.

“I'm not letting you throw Alberta out! This is as much my home as it is yours!” 

“Fine.” Sherlock was oddly calm. Too calm. Before John's drink-dulled mind could force his body into action Sherlock had snatched John's keys from where they had fallen and locked John and Alberta out of the flat. “Come back when you're alone!” Sherlock called through the wood.

John sighed, thinking resignedly that it was perhaps all for the best anyway.

“Why don't we go for a walk and sober ourselves up? It'll be a good chance to clear our heads,” he asked Alberta gently. She sniffled and nodded, letting him help her off the floor and stagger down the stairs under his protective arm. 

To be honest, John felt terrible for the poor woman. Despite a little Tequila fueled fumbling in front of 221b he really didn't have any romantic aspirations toward the woman. She was sweet in her concern for others, and she had a very active- if slightly shy- sense of humor. But John honestly wasn't really interested and learning that she was Anderson's wife had only doubled that disinterest. 

He'd invited her over in a drunken bout of kindness once she'd mentioned that she didn't want to go home. He'd intended to offer up his bed and kip on the sofa. Apparently some wires were crossed. 

He thought about breaching the subject as they walked down the road but decided against it. Her brief, disastrous interaction with Sherlock must have left a bad taste in her mouth. There was no way she was in the mood for anything more than a bit of a cuddle now. He felt so bad for the poor woman. 

What was a bit of harmless flirting anyway, if it put a smile on her face? 

…...............................................................

Sherlock, meanwhile, was pacing in front of the windows in the living room of 221B. He had long ago accepted that he might eventually lose John to a woman, but to _that_? Never. Impossible. The very thought was abhorrent.

Sherlock liked his life as it was. Having John close by was convenient. It meant that John was almost always on hand to assist with cases and tidy things and do whatever it was that John Watsons did that made Sherlock's life run so smoothly. 

He didn't want that to change. 

Surprisingly enough, he also felt strongly that he didn't want his best friend to be unhappy. Alberta Anderson was so far removed from suitable, or even worthy, of Doctor John Watson that the very idea of them walking down the street together at this hour made Sherlock want to snap his violin bow with his teeth. 

Admittedly Sherlock was pretty new to this whole “Taking other people's feelings into account” nonsense. How was one supposed to make their own self-interest miraculously coincide with someone else's on command? How could he bring John to see the error oh his ways in choosing such an uninspired, brain dead woman (how could she be anything other when she had chosen to tie herself to _Anderson_ for life)?

Useless.

Unless.....

..............................................................................

 

Alberta was a warm presence at John's side as they ambled down the London streets. They hadn't spoken much besides some light flirting John had used to make her smile again. He was just thinking about how to tell her she probably ought to get a hotel room or something before it got to late. He was knackered and already thinking about how to break back into 221B, preferably without waking Mrs. Hudson or Sherlock.

For Mrs. Hudson, obviously, it was courtesy that concerned him. Sherlock he wanted to wake up by smothering him with a pillow.

“How do you do it John?”

“Do what?” John asked, bewildered and lost in pillowy thoughts (Sherlock Holmes Smothered... in the store? In the street? Oh god, he was going barmy! How many letters were there between B and S anyway?)

“Put up with that crackpot flatmate of yours! Why you must have the patience of a saint! You're so loyal John, even to a man like that. So unlike my husband- soon to be _ex_ -husband. I knew from the moment I saw you in the bar that you had to be mine.”

“What do you mean, a man like him?” John asks defensively. 

“Oh, you know,” Alberta said airily, “all his eccentricities. You wont believe the things I've heard about him from Mr. Anderson. He insults honest working men and women. I heard that he assaulted a female officer for trying to tell him he needed to wear gloves at a crime scene. Mr. Anderson recons he's a necrophiliac, you know. 

“Well, a man like you wouldn't live with a freak like that if you knew of course, you seem the sort to always be giving the benefit of the doubt, but for a man to _get off_ on murders, honestly. I bet he wanks to crime scene photos. I'd lock your door at night if I were you. You're such a good man John. I'd hate to see you hurt for your kind heartedness. You just don't know what his sort is actually capable of.

“John, why have you stopped?” Alberta asked, yanking on John's arm. 

“Wow,” said John. “I think I finally see why Anderson is with Donovan. She might be tough but at least she waited for Sherlock to insult her professionally before she broke out the insults. This might be hard to hear, but Sherlock never said anything about you that wasn't true. You made a mistake marrying Anderson, and I made a mistake thinking that you were a sweet woman who was fooled into thinking the best of him. The truth is as that the two of you are just as rotten as each other.”

A cabbie pulled up beside them, calling out to ask if they needed a lift.

“I do,” John called back. “She's staying here.” The ex-army doctor stepped into the cab and snapped the door closed behind him. Alberta crossed her arms indignantly on the sidewalk.

"You'll regret this when you see reason," Alberta spat bitterly. 

"I very much doubt that," John said as the cab pulled away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's a little short but hopefully entertaining. 
> 
> Please let me know what you think! I'm always glad to hear from readers and get feedback <3


	3. Expect the Unexpected

Because John wasn't a massive child, unlike some people, he rode the cab strait to Baker street without any waffling or hesitation. He paid the man, got out at the curb and looked up at the lanky silhouette of his best friend in their living room window. Time to face the music (quite possibly literally, and if so god help him because Sherlock in a strop with a violin is a torture he would hardly wish on anyone).

“Come to your own conclusion Doctor?” Sherlock asked, sniffing as John entered. 

“You know I have.” 

“Hmm, you wouldn't be this upset if it were Anderson she'd released her vitriol on. According to your tedious moral compass, if anyone has the right it's her. No, not that, but she did let slip that massive judgmental gossiping streak, didn't she? Did she start in on what a whore Donovan is or was it some other tedious social slight?”

“It was you actually.” John cleared his throat. “Look, your a berk and I hardly know how I put up with you sometimes, but your my best mate goddamn it and I wasn't about to stand there and listening to her spew that unfounded hate at you. Shite she heard from a known adulterer-” 

John took a deep breath. “I know you didn't exactly make the best impression but that's no excuse. You weren't being an arse out of spite, you just don't always realize what you're saying can hurt people or how badly.” 

Sherlock stared at John owlishly for several seconds. “That's... surprisingly compassionate of you John. Even if it is an arbitrary distinction. Still. You can hardly be blamed for lacking the necessary deductive skills to see through her.” 

“Let's just both pretend what you just said was actually comforting and heart warming and go to bed, yeah?”

“Acceptable.” John smiled tiredly at his friend and forced his tired half drunk body up the stairs to his room. 

…......................................................................

Mycroft Holmes didn't sleep well that night.

He had been utterly disgusted, seeing that second rate book lender on John Watson's arm of all people. He'd trained the CCTV on the pair ever since John's surveillance team alerted him to the fact that they had left the pub together and seemed to be headed back to Baker Street together. 

Something would have to be done. Doctor Watson shouldn't be allowed to cavort with riffraff like that when so many more savory options were available to him. Eagerly. 

With that delectable thought, Mycroft set down his comforting cup of hot chocolate with mini marshmallows, turned off his CCTV monitor, closed the file on an assassination he had just ordered in the Philippines and crawled directly into bed. He snuggled beneath his down comforter wondering about Doctor Watson's stance on chocolate sauce in the bedroom.

Mmm.

…......................................................................................

To say that John was kidnapped on his way to work would be to ignore the way the two ex-special forces men in thousand pound suits poured him fresh squeezed orange juice out of a decanter and offered him a variety of baked goods fresh from the oven of a cantankerous french woman who had personally catered to royalty. 

The outdoor cafe was quaint in a ridiculously, massively expensive kind of way. It had apparently dainty wrought iron furniture and large umbrellas to shield patrons (John and his adult babysitters were the only ones there) and gardens teaming with vines, ferns and ivy.

John preferred the term “force ably vacationed” for circumstances such as those.

He decides there's nothing for it but to eat a scone and wait patiently for his scolding from big brother. He had an inkling what this was about and if he was right he'd need all the strength he could get to brow beat the eldest Holmes into well and truly believing he wasn't the master of John's fate. 

When Mycroft Holmes appears, in his most impressively tailored suit to date, John's mouth goes dry. He had a bit of a crush on Mycroft. Who would have thought? He was only extremely rich, powerful, caring and mysterious. There was something about seeing him in that artistically crafted three piece suit that made John want to grab him by the tie and make a mess of him right across the dainty breakfast table. 

He makes the appropriate humming noises as Mycroft carries on, increasingly fidgeting with his tie as John's eyes flick to it time and again. “Please John,” Mycroft concludes. “I care for you too much to stand by and watch you make these kinds of mistakes. 

“You could do so much better. You could be with someone who genuinely cares for you, who wants the best for you, who can provide you with the things you need and not involve any extra-marital complications. We could be happy together- I can make you happy. Please reconsider accepting my proposal. 

“Dinner at the Chez St. Louis this Friday evening and a chance to prove myself. That's all I ask.”

“Sherlock wouldn't take it well.” 

“That was your argument last time I asked as well. Look what happened last night. How likely is it that he'll take any choice you make for a romantic partner well? Whoever you decide to tie yourself to in this way will also need to be able to cope with Sherlock. 

“I have no misconceptions that your friendship with my brother will abate simply because you are provided with adequate attention elsewhere in your life for once. Would anyone else you chose be able to weather his moods? At least this way I'm a known variable. In time he will come to accept it and move on.” John gives this argument several seconds of consideration as he rips a croissant into pieces. 

“Alright. Dinner, and maybe a film or whatever is is British Governments do for entertainment. A chance to prove yourself. No promises.” 

Mycroft practically beams. It's subtle as everything else about the elder Holmes is but John's spent enough time around emotionally wounded super-geniuses to tell the difference.

…..........................................................................................

John's never been a fan of subterfuge if it could be helped. He's a head-on, invading Afghanistan sort of man. This is why he sits a bewildered Sherlock down in the living room at 221B later that day and draws a deep breath.

“Sherlock I've decoded I'm going to go to diner with Mycroft this Friday evening. Now I think we can all be adults about thi-”

“What?!” Sherlock screeches, springing from his chair, horrified. He grabs at John's shoulders and shakes him wildly. “Why the fuck would you agree to that John?! He'll never let you be now that he's gotten you to say yes the once!

“You honestly think you can trust my brother? Consider this John- Anderson and Donovan, while flagrantly unprofessional and rife with a disturbing amount of sexual energy, are not typically stupid enough to have sexual relations during an active crime scene. 

“Why would they change their pattern? Any fool can see that Anderson has always had a fetish for sex in a barn. It would be the simplest matter in the world for Mycroft who decides matters of life and death every day, to arrange for a man to be killed in one.

“Think about it. One well placed word from a co-worker- a planted agent perhaps- and suddenly Anderson knows that no one will be going near the tack room again for the rest of the day. There was of course, never any doubt that I would follow the trail to them and expose their sordid little secret once and for all. So simple for a man like my brother. 

“And then there was Mrs. Anderson in the pub. A bit convenient don't you think? Perhaps a pompous umbrella toting Queen was hoping you'd see that I would never react well to anyone you wanted to take to bed so why not just let Mycroft have his revolting way? We both know he's capable of it.” 

“Stop talking shit.” John shifted uncomfortably. “That's way too elaborate. Not even Mycroft would....”

Sherlock just stares, one eyebrow lifted in the ultimate expression of doubt.

...Would he? Could he? Had Mycroft set this up? Suddenly John wasn't so sure. At least there was cake in the fridge for him to drown his sorrows and confusion in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, there it is. Way different from what I usually do but I hope it turned out alright.
> 
> Comments and kudos always welcome!


	4. Extra Scene, by popular demand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's time for Mycroft to pay for his sins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everybody! Sorry it's been so long in coming, but I do have a lot of current fics in need of love and attention as well as a moderately busy life to attend to. Apologies for the delay.
> 
> THERE IS SOME NSFW STUFF AHEAD. You have been warned.
> 
> Also a slight dom/sub dynamic so if you're not into that you may want to skip that part. It's all very consensual, no worries there.

John couldn't believe he was going to go through with this. Despite all his doubts he was seated, in his best date clothes no less, in the intimate atmosphere of the totally uninhabited little cafe Mycroft had brought him to before. 

The man himself hadn't shown yet, five minutes late could be interpreted as either fashionable or bad form, but John was inclined to think the later. He'd always thought it showed a lack of care on the part of the tardy, but given the lengths to which the elder Holmes had gone to to get John's attention and make a positive impression on him, John didn't think it was an intentional slight by any means. 

This was confirmed when Mycroft came striding quickly in a second later, his eyes worried despite the shy smile on his face. 

“A slight problem in Bolivia kept me at the office. I hope you haven't been waiting terribly long. I'm afraid the issue just wouldn't keep until the morning.” 

“The morning?” John said. “You've always struck me as the take-your-work-home-with-you type.” 

“Oh I fully intend to take something else home with me tonight,” Mycroft said as casually as asking John what wine he preferred. “Please feel free or order anything that strikes your fancy. As I have invited you it's only proper that I take care of the bill.” 

“That's very generous of you,” John said.

“Oh, not at all,” Mycroft insisted. 

A waiter in a tailored suit more expensive than John's entire wardrobe took their order and presented a bottle of rather nice wine “on the house”. 

John took a sip and regarded Mycroft over the rim of his glass. John could hardly say he was a wine connoisseur (if given his choice he'd gladly choose a stout over anything made from grapes) but even he could tell the bottle he was drinking from probably cost a year's rent at 221B. 

He set his glass down with renewed determination. It was time they got a few things straight.

“Look, Mycroft-”

“Enjoying the Pinot John? I understand that it may, perhaps, not be your usual fare but I thought it may be a welcome change of pace for this occasion, at least.” 

“Did you really take advantage of a murder scene to set up Donovan and Anderson so you could manipulate me into feeling sorry for Mrs. Anderson so that Sherlock would seem to be putting unreasonable restrictions on my love life? God, that sounds so convoluted when I say it out loud.”

“That's because it is convoluted my dear. I would never manipulate you in that way. I've been accused of being interfering, I will admit that much, but to ruin the careers of two of the yard's finest? Preposterous. Put Sherlock's words out of your mind love. Let's focus on tonight and what it means for us,” Mycroft whispered, putting his hand over John's on the table. 

“How did you know Sherlock suggested it?” John asked, assuming Mycroft would gleefully explain that little deduction and then John could compliment his intelligence and the evening could move forward more pleasantly. 

Mycroft hesitated, just minutely, a fraction of a second, but John had been living with Sherlock for a while now, and after the incident with the iguana in the dryer he had become an expert at telling when a Holmes was lying out of absolute necessity. 

“Obvious,” Mycroft scoffed lightly. But it was too late. 

“You're bugging the flat? Again?” John ripped his hand out from under Mycroft's. 

“Please be reasonable about this. It's only for Sherlock's benefit, to keep him safe. You know what he's like. He's a danger to himself and everyone around him.” 

“He's not a mental patient Mycroft! He's a grown man and you don't get to decide what's best for him no matter how much you may want to! You don't get to invade his privacy like that! Our privacy, actually.”

“H'orderves?” the waiter asked nervously, holding out a platter to the two men.

“Fuck off!” John snapped.

“John, really,” Mycroft admonished, motioning for the waiter to set down the tray and then shoeing him off absently. “If you want the devices to be removed, all you need to do is tell me so. I trust your judgment as a professional, and as his friend.”

“All of them?” John asked suspiciously.

“Yes,” Mycroft soothed.

“Even the camera in my bedroom?” 

“Of co- wait,” Mycroft quickly backtracked.

“MYCROFT HOLMES YOU PUT A CAMERA IN MY BEDROOM?” John screamed, slamming his hand on the table and standing. 

“No,” Mycroft said nervously. “Of course not John. Please sit down, let's talk about this calmly. Reasonably.” 

“No. Fuck that. I'm done being 'reasonable'. We're going to do this my way from now on. Tell me the absolute truth this time or I walk right now. Did you have a man murdered, set up Donovan and Anderson, and conspire to have me run into Alberta just to manipulate me into agreeing to this date.”

“I certainly didn't foresee Alberta. Quite frankly the greater London area is safer with Anderson and Donovan off the force. They really are breathtakingly incompetent. The dead man was selling government secrets. As for the devices, I would never... there was nothing untoward, I would never....So you see John, no real harm was done. Nothing that would hurt the public.”

“The public?” John scoffed. “What about _me_? Mycroft you keep saying how much you care for me, but this isn't care or affection. This is greed and jealousy. You've crossed lines Mycroft, serious lines. I can't just let this kind of shit go.”

“John, please,” Mycroft begged. “What are you saying?”

“Stand up,” John said, walking around the table. Mycroft stood, his fingers only trembling a little bit. John pulled him forward by his prim tie and kissed him savagely, which Mycroft found to be a pleasant surprise. Right up until the moment john pushed him back, took him by the shoulders, spun him around and took him by the back of the neck. John pushed down, pressing Mycroft's face into the fine linen table cloth, not hurting him but not brooking any resistance either.

Excitement raced through Mycroft as he saw his breath fogging the silverware. So this wasn't exactly how he'd imagined it going, he was adaptable and this was a more than adequate turn for the evening to take. 

But then John said. “I'm going to do what your mother should have done twenty five years ago.” What in the name of god was _that_ supposed to mean? Mycroft wondered right until the time the first smack came down on his rump. 

“It's not nice to manipulate people.” Another smack. “I'd like to hear you say it Mycroft, 'It's not nice to manipulate people'.” Another smack, much harder than the first two had Mycroft shifting his hips unexpectedly. Well this was an interesting development. 

“It's not nice to manipulate people,” Mycroft said, his voice breathy and not at all as controlled as he would have hoped, even given the circumstances.

“Very good,” John said, rubbing his hand over Mycroft's bum gently. “I want you to know that you do have a choice here. You can say 'stop' and I'll stop. You can get up and leave, I won't stop you. We can part ways and I'll go back to Baker Street and we can forget this whole night happened and never go out again. Or, you can stay right where you are and take whatever I decide to give you. Alright?” John said, given Mycroft a few long seconds to decide. 

“Alright,” Mycroft groaned. Another swift smack came down on his posterior. 

“Trousers down please,” John said. Mycroft's hands immediately started fumbling with his flies, knuckles knocking against the table in their haste. His trousers slide down his legs, pooling around his ankles as he waited with baited breath for the next blow. John stared, considering for a few seconds. “Pants too,” he said finally and Mycroft pushed the down over the curve of his bum with incredible anticipation. “Lovely,” John said, giving his arse an appreciative squeeze. He drew his finger, connecting a stray spray of freckles into something like a constellation. Mycroft had to squeeze his eyes shut just to be able to process the sensation. John gave the area a hard pinch and then immediately delivered a smack to the opposite cheek. 

“I'd like to hear you say that you won't plant any more surveillance equipment in my home.”

“I won't plant any more surveillance equipment in 221B John, I swear.” John delivered his hardest smack yet. 

“I think you're lying,” John said. 

“No, no I swear I'm not. I swear it John,” Mycroft babbled helplessly as three more strikes landed. His eyes began to water even as his arousal intensified. 

“I can't trust you. You'll have to prove it to me.”

“Yes, John, anything you want. I'll prove it.” 

“Apologize to Anderson and Donovan. Find Anderson a new job.”

“Yes, of course. I can do that. I will do that.” Another hard smack landed and then another.

“You can't play god Mycroft. You can't ruin people's lives for your own benefit.” 

“Please John, please,” Mycroft sobbed. 

“You could always tell me to stop. You know I would.” John ran his hand soothingly over the reddened skin. It would be bruised by tomorrow. Deep enough to last a week, deep enough to remind Mycroft of this moment whenever he sat or stood or moved.

“No, please don't stop. John, oh John,” Mycroft panted, shifting his hips forward against the table cloth.

“I suppose there's only one thing for it,” John said, ghosting his fingers over Mycroft's entrance. There was a small serving of fragrant oil on the h'orderves platter, meant for dipping bread in. John slicked his fingers with it and set to make Mycroft beg. 

When all was said and done, and Mycroft had redressed, he would have looked perfectly prim to someone who had never met him before. It wasn't up to his usual standards but John felt proud of his work none the less. 

Mycroft cleared his throat and looked down. “About the camera in your room John. It was aimed at the door and of course there was no sound. It really wasn't meant to be anything tawdry.”

“Despite everything I believe you,” John told him. “That's why I'm going to given another chance, against my better judgment. But one more incident Mycroft, just one more screw up like this and I swear to god that's it. I'm not going to put up with this kind of behavior.” 

“I know,” Mycroft said, meeting his eyes earnestly. “I will do better in the future. Morality has never exactly been my strong suit, but for you I will try.” John smiled and took Mycroft's hand in his.

“I have faith in you,” he said giving it a squeeze and for the first time in quite a while, Mycroft felt genuine hope. Hope that perhaps he hadn't misjudged this man or been misjudged in return, hope that they could truly be partners, equals, who would raise each other up to become better men than they ever could have been on their own. Mycroft squeezed back, secure in the knowledge that he would do anything for his John. And that no-one needed to know about the camera's across the street from 221B that were aimed directly at the windows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed! 
> 
> I had a fantastic time writing this fic. Many thanks to FeliciaHM for bidding on me in the Dash-Con Sherlock fic auction and for her amazing prompt. I had some doubts about writing Mycroft/John initially as I don't ship that pairing, but it all turned out to be great fun in the end.
> 
> (for inspiration I decided that Mycroft's feelings for John should be treated as an overtly sexual combination of his feelings for cake and the British Navy. This was immensely helpful. John's feelings were a wee bit more intuitive.)
> 
> Please let me know what you thought! 
> 
> Comments, kudos, and reviews are always welcome!


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